


It Only Takes A Taste

by lupwned



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Dating, F/F, Flirting, Holtz is an amazing cook and these dweebs fall in love over food, It's fluffy and sexy and might make you hungry, Smutty and Sexy, You're Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-07 14:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7717762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupwned/pseuds/lupwned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only takes a taste when it's something special.<br/>It only takes a taste when you know it's good.<br/>Sometimes one bite is more than enough<br/>To know you want more of the thing you just got a taste of.<br/>~ Sara Bareilles</p><p>COMPLETE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breakfast

**BREAKFAST**

Early morning sunlight shines through the firehouse windows and tickles Erin’s face. She wakes slowly, her eyes remaining closed as she cracks her neck and shoulders. They’re sore and tender, assuredly the result of her falling asleep at her desk. She tries not to make a habit of it – more often than not, she goes home to her apartment – but she had been so engrossed in her research and writing that she lost track of time. Squinting, she looks over at the digital clock in the corner of her desk.

_5:15AM._

Erin groans.

She _could_ go back to sleep, but she knows she’ll probably toss for an hour before eventually getting up, so she decides that coffee is the best option.

With a groan, she gets up from her desk chair and stretches, letting out a little groan as she does so. She shuffles through the dimly lit room, down the hallway and toward the kitchen, her bare feet making a “swoosh” sound against the hardwood floor as she walks. Erin’s not even sure if anyone else is there, but if she’s awake at 5:15am, then everyone else can be as well.

Rounding the corner to the kitchen, she stops abruptly at the sound of tools on metal.

“ _Too early for this_ ,” Erin thinks to herself, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead before making her way into the kitchen. Expecting total and complete chaos, she’s pleasantly surprised to find Holtzmann in front of the stove with a variety of bowls, frying pants and utensils. Holtz sways her hips back and forth to a silent tune and focuses intently on the onions she is chopping on a dark blue cutting board. She bites her lip as she dices; onions shouldn’t be this sexy, Erin tells herself, but somehow the engineer manages to surprise her with every little thing she does.

“Holtz?” Erin says quietly, stepping further into the kitchen but trying her hardest not to scare Holtzmann, who appears to be in her own little cooking world.

Holtzmann turns her head and smiles. “Mornin’.” She looks back down toward the cutting board and continues prepping. “You’re up early.”

“I could say the same,” Erin responds as she moves toward the coffee maker. She chooses a Keurig cup – French vanilla – and sets it in the machine, which sputters to life and begins brewing.

“I do this every morning.” Holtzmann tosses the newly diced onions into a frying pan, which sizzles to life with the addition. The scent of butter and onions quickly fills the room; Erin hears her stomach growl.

“Really? _Every_ morning?” Erin stands on her tiptoes and grabs a coffee mug from the top shelf, then sets it in the Keurig. Hot coffee sputters into the cup.

Holtzmann simply responds with an “mmhmm”, then goes back to her work dicing a variety of peppers. They’re brightly colored and perfectly crisp, coming apart with a small “crunch” as Jillian quickly runs the knife down the center.

Coffee in hand, Erin shuffles over toward the stove. She blows on the top of the mug before bringing it to her lips and taking the first sip. “What are you making?”

“An omelette with peppers, tomato, spinach, onion and feta cheese.”

Erin’s mouth waters.

“I wasn’t expecting guests,” Holtzmann teases with a wink. “If you’re going to be in my kitchen, then you might as well help.”

Erin laughs and raises an eyebrow. “ _Your_ kitchen?”

“Less talking, more helping.” Holtz points to the refrigerator before grabbing a spatula to toss the onions and butter sizzling on the stovetop. “Grab me the eggs and milk.”

Erin takes another sip of coffee, then places it on the counter. She walks over to the fridge and searches for the items Holtz had requested. “You know, I find it hard to believe that the woman who lives on Pringles and Twizzlers cooks like this.” Once the eggs and milk are found, Erin saunters back over to Holtzmann’s side with an ingredient in each hand.

“I’m a woman of many talents.” Holtzmann turns and winks.

Erin’s not quite sure why it causes her to blush.

“Besides, those are snacks, not meals.”

“Ahh.” Erin laughs softly. “Makes _total_ sense then.”

Holtzmann ignores her, instead reaching for the carton of eggs and a bright yellow bowl at the corner of the counter. With one swift movement, she cracks each egg with one hand, the yolks and whites falling into the bowl with a quiet “plop!”. Erin finds Holtzmann’s movements captivating as her fingers twist and flick rhythmically; they’re an engineer’s hands, moving methodically and with precision, and she can’t help but wonder what else Holtz can do with such talent.

Next, Holtzmann grabs the whisk and pours a small bit of 2% milk into the bowl alongside the eggs. The icing on the cake, Erin decides, is when she brings the milk to her lips and takes a swig out of the carton as though it’s a bottle of Captain Morgan’s.

“Really?” Erin says dryly, snatching the container from Holtzmann’s hands. The other woman smiles, and it’s only accented by the milk mustache around her lips.

Erin suddenly finds herself wanting to lick it off. Holtz opts to wipe it off with the back of her hand.

Without a word, Holtzmann begins to whisk lightly yet quickly, folding the milk and eggs over one another in a repetitious motion. They quickly incorporate into a perfect omelette base.

“What now?” Erin asks.

Holtzmann puts the bowl aside and gives the onions a stir once again before walking over to the refrigerator. She sticks her head deep in the fridge and searches. “Sausage or bacon?”

“Hmm?”

Jillian reappears from the depths of the refrigerator with a package in each hand. “Sausage” – she shakes the package in her left hand – “or bacon?”

“Ooooh, ummm…” Erin thinks for a moment. “Bacon, I guess.”

Holtz snorts.

Erin furrows her brow and crosses her arms across her chest. “What’s so funny?”

“I fancied you a _sausage_ girl.”

It’s quick and playful and makes the breath catch in Erin’s throat.

Holtzmann saunters back over to the stove with bacon in hand. She grabs the scissors and opens the packaging before tossing the meat into a large skillet on the back burner.

“It depends on what I’m in the mood for.” It’s the best comeback Erin can devise quickly; she feels the heat creep from the bottom of her neck and behind her ears.

Holtzmann turns to her with a smile and steps forward, their faces and bodies close. “So, Gilbert, what have you been _in the mood for_ lately?”

Erin licks her lips and leans forward a little, close enough that Holtzmann can smell the French vanilla coffee on her breath.

Suddenly, they’re interrupted by the sound of bacon sizzling. Erin never thought she’d be able to say that breakfast food had twat-blocked her, but she supposes she can cross that one off her bucket list.

“It’s showtime,” Holtzmannn says excitedly, rubbing her hands together. She reaches across the counter for the egg and milk mixture as well as the spatula she had used earlier. With a grin on her face, she pours it into the pan and it begins cooking with a soft “psssst”. Next, Holtz grabs the remaining vegetables – peppers, spinach, tomatoes – and tosses them into the pan, then accents the top with a handful of creamy, crumbly feta.

This is what heaven smells like, Erin assures herself.

“Brace yourself, Gilbert. You’re about to take the wheel.”

Erin’s eyes grow wide. “Me? Oh no, I don’t cook. I burn toast.”

Holtz gives her the side eye.

“Seriously. Have you ever seen a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving? Me.” Erin points to herself. “That’s me.”

The comparison makes Holtzmann snort. “C’mere.” She grabs Erin’s hand and pulls her in front of the stove. “Follow my lead,” Holtzmann instructs, stepping behind her and pressing herself against Erin’s back.

Erin whimpers. It’s soft, but a whimper nonetheless.

Holtzmann grabs the spatula and places it in Erin’s right hand. Gently, she rests her own hand on top and, like a marionette, guides Erin’s motions, running the spatula along the edges of the egg to slowly form the shape of the omelette. “Relax,” she whispers in other woman’s ear, and Erin swears she feels Holtz lick her neck. “You’re so tense. You’ll taste it in the food. Relaaax”.

Pressed together, they continue to work at the omelette until it’s mostly cooked through, fluffy and yellow and slightly melty from the feta.

“The big finale!” Holtzmann says excitedly as she instructs Erin to drop the spatula and grab the arm of the pan in both hands. “We’re gonna flip it. Ready?”

“What?!” Erin sputters. “No. It looks so good and I’m gonna fuck it up. Seriously, Holtz, just take it from here-“

“Feet firm. Knees slightly bent. Check your grip.” Holtzmann puts her hands over Erin’s once more and gives them a little squeeze of encouragement. “Flip!”

It’s like slow motion, watching the omelette rise from the pan and spin slightly in the air. Just when Erin thinks it’s going to plop down on the center of the stovetop, practically miles away from the pan, Holtz changes their angle and they catch it together, the egg beginning to sizzle once again.

Erin squeaks with delight. “We did it!”

“ _You_ did it,” Holtz congratulates, removing her hands from Erin’s and giving her shoulder a little squeeze. “Well done…for a beginner.”

“I’ll get better with practice,” Erin assures. She watches as Holtzmann grabs two plates from the cabinet and begins assembling their breakfasts like a piece of artwork. Every item has an exact place and Erin doesn’t question it; she simply watches with adoration as the artist paints her edible canvas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make the writer very happy :) Thanks for reading!


	2. Lunch

**LUNCH**

For weeks, they make breakfast together, Holtzmann taking time to explain every step and ingredient while Erin soaks it all in like a pancake with syrup. Holtz is an amazing teacher and like a giddy schoolgirl with a hopeless crush, Erin anticipates each lesson; she’s even found herself waking up early so she can prep ingredients and greet Jillian with a smile as she walks into the kitchen.

She learns how to cook some of her favorite breakfasts – French toast, crepes, fresh made hashbrowns. Erin even learns how to flip an over easy egg without breaking it; that one takes a few tries, but with Holtzmann pressed against her, caressing her back and arm as she instructs, she can’t help if the yolk splits a few times.

“Done well you have,” Holtzmann compliments one morning, employing her best Yoda impression. “Move forward you must.” She winks at Erin and tosses her hair.

Erin makes a light saber sound with the spatula in her hand. “What did you have in mind, oh wise one?”

Holtzmann turns the front burner off and sets a used frying pan into the sink nearby. After quickly washing and drying her hands, she saunters back over to Erin. “I think it’s time,” Holtz purrs, “we take this to the next level.”

Erin’s breath hitches. “O-oh?” She swallows – hard. “What level might that be?”

“Lunch, of course!” Holtzmann replies cheerily.

Not _exactly_ what Erin had in mind by “next level”.

**-X-X-X-X-**

The Ghostbusters become more high-profile, and as such, their schedules grow hectic. They’re working constantly, and fitting in something as superfluous as cooking lessons seems almost impossible. Erin desperately misses her time together with Holtzmann and tries every excuse in the book to catch some alone time with her. It takes three weeks, but they finally make a “date” of it.

When the day approaches, Erin curses the butterflies that crescendo in her stomach. She does her hair up in a small ponytail and accents her lips with a deep red lip stain. It seems ridiculous, but she can’t help but treat this cooking lesson as…well, a _real date_. She checks herself in the bathroom mirror one last time, smoothing down a few stray hairs, before bouncing down the firehouse stairs toward the kitchen.

When she rounds the corner, she finds Holtzmann washing a handful of tiny potatoes over the sink. It takes Holtz a few moments to notice her, but when she does, she drops the potatoes into a colander and grins, the dimples on each of her cheeks growing more prominent as her smile widens. “There’s my sous chef,” Holtzmann says with delight. “Gonna put you to work today.”

“Tell me how you want me,” Erin teases, placing a hand on her hip.

Holtzmann shakes her head and laughs deep in her throat. “Can you dry these off?” she asks, pointing to the potatoes in the sink.

Erin nods, then grabs a paper towel from the counter. “What are we making today?” She pats the spuds dry and returns them to the colander.

“A small arugula salad with homemade vinaigrette, pan-seared salmon and crispy fingerling potatoes.”

Erin chews on her lip. “That seems…” She fidgets. “Awfully complicated.” Truthfully, she’s a little nervous she’ll screw it up. They’ve come this far, and she’s been very proud of herself, capitalizing on every chance she’s had to impress Holtzmann. She’s a scientist, always up for a challenge and learning something new, but something about the possibility of making a fool of herself in front of Holtzmann after she’s come _this_ far…

“Nonsense.” Holtzmann crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the counter. “I prefer to call it…a _challenge_.”

“Right.” Erin nods once. “Where do we start?”

Holtzmann moves swiftly toward the pantry, pulling out an assortment of oil, vinegar and other spices. “Ever made a salad dressing before?” she asks over her shoulder as she reaches toward the back of the cabinet.

Erin shakes her head.

“Well, today’s the day.” Holtzmann sets the ingredients in her arms on the counter, then gestures toward them. “Get cookin’, good lookin’.”

“I-what?” Erin spins on her heels, following Holtzmann as she moves over to the refrigerator, opens the door and pulls out an item wrapped in brown packaging. Holtz, unsurprisingly, ignores her, then pulls out a white cutting board from a nearby drawer and sets the packaging down on top. Carefully, she opens it, and the distinctive smell of fish wafts through the kitchen.

“Holtzmann,” Erin says, a little more sternly this time. “I don’t even have a recipe. If you don’t tell me what to make, I’m not going to know-“

“Slowly mix the oil and vinegar together,” Holtzmann instructs, “then a little sugar, a little salt, maybe some garlic…one of the most important things you can learn when it comes to cooking is how ingredients work together.” Straining on her tiptoes, she grabs a bowl from the top shelf and hands it over to Erin with a smile. “I have faith in you.” It’s a mixture of sarcasm and sincerity, but it boosts Erin’s confidence nevertheless.

She’s determined now, ready to concoct a masterpiece that sets Holtzmann’s taste buds ablaze. The unfortunate part, however, is that she barely knows where to start. Taking the plunge, she pours approximately two tablespoons of oil into the bowl, followed by half that amount in balsamic vinegar. Erin makes quick eye contact with Holtzmann, who gives her an assuring nod, then turns back toward the fish on the counter.

Erin lets out a small sigh and continues. It isn’t until she reaches for the saltshaker that she realizes her hands are trembling. There are so many spices, many she’s never even heard of. She’s not sure whether Holtzmann expects her to actually _use_ all of them, or if she’d just taken them out to give her options. Cooking, especially when you’ve got a massive crush on the chef, Erin thinks to herself, is _stressful_. Trying to throw caution to the wind, she adds in a pinch of salt, sugar, and pepper, attempting to recall the 2am Juila Child reruns she’s seen over the years. She also grabs a spoon from a nearby drawer and scoops a small bit of minced garlic into the mixture. Surprisingly, her experiment, as she’s now calling it in her mind, smells delicious, and after giving it a quick stir, it looks – dare she say it – good enough to _eat_.

Erin turns to Holtzmann, ready to present her vinegary concoction, but halts on her heels when she finds the engineer slightly bent over the counter, her butt wiggling back and forth. Erin shifts a little to the right, trying to figure out what _exactly_ it is Holtzmann is doing while also trying to ignore the fact that she wants nothing more than to give her a little squeeze.

Holtzman holds a pair of silver tweezers and carefully pulls small pin bones from the salmon filet in front of her. Brow furrowed and tongue sticking out slightly, she’s totally engrossed in her work, a similar look on her face as the one she has when she’s working on a new invention. Erin decides that it’s these moments where Holtzmann looks the most irresistible.

“I know you’re looking at my ass,” Holtzmann teases, her eyes never leaving the fish in front of her. She swings her hips a bit more deliberately.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Erin says coyly, turning back toward her dressing.

“Are you done with the vinaigrette?”

Erin responds with an “mmhmm” in her throat.

Still focused, Holtzmann gestures toward a different bottle of oil. “Pour this into the pan so there’s an even inch around. We’ll use that to fry the potatoes.” She pulls a few more pin bones from the salmon and sets them into a small, white bowl. “Then put just a little bit into the smaller pan. Let it get nice and hot so we can sear Nemo over here.” She holds the fish – now devoid of bones – proudly in front of her.

“Nemo wasn’t a salmon,” Erin corrects flatly. She grabs the bottle and distributes the oil between the two pans as instructed before turning each to the desired temperature.

“Whatever. All I know,” Holtzmann pauses for a moment, grabbing the salt and pepper from where Erin previously worked and sprinkling a pinch of each on the fish, “is that this baby is gonna be delicious.” Holtzmann hovers her hand over the smaller pan, checking the heat. Satisfied, she places the fish in the pan – skin side down – then turns to Erin, smiling.

“What now?” Erin shifts her weight onto one hip and leans slightly against the stove.

Holtzmann washes her hands, then practically glides over to the counter, grabbing the bowl full of vinaigrette that Erin has made. She sticks her pinky in and gathers a small bit on her fingertip, bringing it up to her lips and sucking slowly.

The room is suddenly very, _very_ warm.

“Did you taste while you made it?” Holtzmann asks, her voice very even, and Erin has trouble deciphering exactly how the other woman feels about it.

“Uh....” Erin scratches at her forearm. “No. I…no.”

“More important rule of cooking. Always taste. Taste taste _taste._ ”

Embarrassed, Erin blushes, feeling utterly defeated.

“Lucky for you,” Holtzmann continues, “what you made this time is absolutely _delicious_.” She sticks her finger back in for another taste. “Well done, Gilbert.” She winks.

Erin lets out a heavy breath. She tries to think of something witty to say in response, but finds herself, for once in her life, at a loss for words.

Holtzmann, meanwhile, grabs a spatula and gently works the edges of the salmon, checking on the status of the skin. It’s almost there – not quite – but she stands close, ready to flip soon.

An enigma. That’s the only way Erin can describe Holtzmann as she watches her with wonder and adoration in the silence of the kitchen, the only sound the sizzling of the frying pan. She’s stunningly beautiful, blonde waves flying in all directions, some in the air, some in her face, which Holtzmann attempts to blow away as she focuses on their lunch. Erin wishes she could get deeper in her head; there’s a part of Holtzmann’s heart and soul that pours into every dish they create together, and Erin can’t help but want to experience more of it.

“Where did you learn to cook?” Erin finally asks, the question having been on the tip of her tongue for weeks. She figures she knows the answer – to impress the ladies, no doubt – but she asks anyway, genuinely curious.

Holtzmann remains focused on the stovetop, but responds unusually softly. “My grandmother.” She doesn’t say much more.

“Oh. Did you cook a lot together? You’ve never mentioned her.”

Holtzmann remains quiet for a moment, shifting the salmon slightly, before responding. “Yes. My childhood was…” Erin notices her chew on the inside of her lip, “…not great. I couldn’t count on very many people. But my grandma, I could always count on her to welcome me with a hug and a home cooked meal. I could always count on her…” Holtzmann’s voice trails off, and she looks up toward the ceiling. “Until I couldn’t.”

“I…” Erin feels terrible. The last thing she wanted was to make this a sad experience full of painful memories. She’d just desperately wanted to learn more about Chef Jillian Holtzmann.

Holtzmann sniffs once, then looks over at Erin with a small smile. “Don’t be sorry. I have lots of great memories with her.” She sets down the spatula on a spoon rest and reaches into a nearby drawer, pulling out a small – yet thick – white book. “She wrote all her recipes down by hand for me. I keep her cookbook in here for inspiration.” Holtzmann lets out a little laugh. “Lucky for me, none of you lazy asses cook, so I haven’t had to explain it up until now.”

Erin laughs a little too amongst tears she didn’t know were in her eyes.

Holtzmann flips the salmon, the skin now perfectly crisp.

“Would you…” Erin clears her throat and shifts back and forth on her feet – once, twice – “…would you cook something from there?” She gestures toward the cookbook that now sits on the counter.

Holtzmann nods.

“With….with _me_.” Erin stands up a little taller. “Will you cook something from there with _me_?”

Holtzmann smiles so wide that her cheeks hurt a little. “If we’re going to cook from that,” the engineer gestures toward the cookbook with a small nod of her head, “we’re going to need a proper kitchen and equipment. So I suppose you’ll have to come back to my place.” It’s one part coy, three parts flirtatious, all parts _Holtzmann_.

“I suppose I will,” Erin responds playfully. She grabs the potatoes from the colander in the sink and gently places them in the hot oil, which quickly crackles and pops. They work diligently together to complete the meal, teasing each other with playful caresses and hip bumps, the oil not the only thing sizzling between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos. I love hearing from you all :) It gets more juicy from here!!! Hehe...


	3. Dinner: Part 1

_Spicy Plum_.

 _Black Cherry_.

Erin looks back and forth at the tubes of lipstick in each hand, trying to determine which will go better with the violet dress and charcoal black blazer she wears. Eventually, she decides upon _Black Cherry_ ; pouting her lips, she applies the color evenly, accenting it with a wet “pop”! When finished, she tosses the stick into her makeup bag and walks over to the full length mirror in the corner of her bedroom, fidgeting a few times as she looks at herself. Despite her numerous insecurities, Erin has to admit she looks good, the dress clinging to her body in all the right places, short at the thigh with a v-cut chest. She fusses with her hair a little before grabbing her purse and a bottle of wine she purchased earlier in the day, then walks out her apartment door to catch a cab to Holtzmann’s place.

The ride is short – at least, short in terms of New York City traffic. The driver tries to make small talk, but she’s too nervous to truly focus, tugging at the hem of her dress. When the taxi pulls up to the curb in front of Holtz’s apartment complex, she hands the driver way more than she owes and rushes toward the entryway.

_J. Holtzmann – 25A_

Erin brushes her fingertip along the buzzer labeled with Holtzmann’s name and smiles. It’s odd to peek into this part of Holtzmann’s life, the part outside of the Ghostbusters, and she knows that stepping into this apartment – _Holtz’s_ apartment – pushes their friendship – relationship – _whatever_ this is – to a different level. Erin shivers and exhales slowly, then presses the buzzer.

There’s a pause, a muffled crackling over the intercom, before Holtz’s voice booms through the speaker. “Holtzmann.”

“Hey it’s” – Erin clears her throat – “it’s me.” She shuffles back and forth on her heels for a moment before the front door unlocks with a loud ‘ _buzz_ ’.

Erin wanders through the apartment hallways, reading each door as she passes by in her search for 25A. Eventually, she finds it, taken slightly aback by the “welcome” mat in front of the door and a hanging wreath of dried flowers. Erin knocks on the door and waits.

“It’s unlocked!” Holtz calls from behind it.

Without hesitation – _surprisingly enough_ – Erin twists the knob and steps into the apartment. The walls are painted a dark cream color with a bright white trim. The space is larger and tidier than Erin expected; sure, there are science magazines and various blueprints scattered around, and an array of sweatshirts are piled in the corner, but overall, it’s tidy and quaint and the absolute opposite of what she’d expected.

Erin’s so focused on the apartment that she doesn’t even notice Holtzmann until she rushes toward her like a tornado, all blonde curls and dimpled smiles and a rush of sweet perfume that makes Erin dizzy.

“Welcome to La Casa Holtzmann,” she welcomes, gesturing around the place with outstretched arms. “What’s this?” Holtz points to the bottle of wine in Erin’s right hand.

“Oh it’s – well I wasn’t exactly sure what we were having, but red wine goes with everything, right?” Erin laughs softly.

Holtzmann chuckles and carefully takes the bottle. “Would you like to see where the magic happens?” she asks with a bright smile.

“I thought that was the lab back at the firehouse?” Erin quips.

Holtzmann seems pleasantly taken aback. “Different type of magic.” She winks.

Holtz turns on her heels toward the kitchen, and it’s in that moment that Erin finally notices how the engineer is dressed. Gone are her greasy overalls and perfect chaos of a hairdo. Instead, she wears dark black slacks and a maroon sleeveless blouse with a black vest overtop. Deep red heels – modest, but for Holtzmann, _shocking_ – click on the kitchen tile as they make their way into the room, and Erin thinks, seeing Holtzmann the way she is now feels as though she has died and gone to heaven.

Holtz asks her something over her shoulder, her back to her, but Erin doesn’t quite hear it, her eyes transfixed on the blonde curls draped across Holtz’s neck and shoulders and the soft curve of her hips where her blouse meets her slacks. Erin licks her lips.

Holtzmann turns, her eyebrows raised, waiting for a response.

“Sorry?” Erin’s voice cracks a little, which only makes Holtz chuckle.

A wave of delicious scents wafts through the kitchen, the smell of meat and wine and garlic heady and savory and oddly erotic. Unconsciously, Erin’s mouth waters.

“Red wine braised short ribs with glazed carrots and“ - Holtzmann gestures toward whole, peeled potatoes that sit on a blue cutting board on Holtz’s small kitchen counter – “garlic chive mashed potatoes if a certain someone is up to helping make them.” She doesn’t wait for Erin’s response; instead, she grabs two wine glasses from a cabinet and places them on the counter. Reaching inside of a drawer, Holtz chooses an old-school bottle opener and opens the wine bottle with a loud “ _pop_!”, then pours each of them a modest glass. “Cheers,” she says softly, handing one glass over to Erin and keeping the other.

Erin thanks Holtz for the wine with a tiny nod before bringing the glass up to her lips and taking a small sip, refraining from gulping the entire thing down to calm her nerves. They’ve cooked before – many, _many_ times now – but something here is different. It’s more formal – dinner, a dinner _date_. The atmosphere is soft and warm yet intimidating; Erin suddenly realizes that there’s some sort of candle lit in the corner, the small flame flickering, and in any other circumstance, she’d be terrified to willingly let Holtzmann create a flame, no matter how small, but it’s sweet and romantic and for some reason it makes Erin swoon.

Holtzmann’s looking at her, Erin soon realizes amidst the silence. She’s sipping her wine but looking at her carefully over the glass, analyzing and what Erin can only think – or hope – is admiring the cocktail dress she’s wearing. “Right,” Holtzmann eventually says after a beat, sucking down the last of her wine; it makes Erin grin.

“Where do you keep your pots?”

Holtzmann gestures toward a cabinet below the sink.

Erin sets her purse on the kitchen counter and wastes no time choosing a suitable pot, assuming her role as Holtzmann’s faithful sous chef. She fills it up with hot water and brings it over to the stove, turning the gas burner on with a few ‘clicks’ of the dial. It springs to life and a blue and red-tinted flame flickers below. “So…” Erin says, grabbing her wine glass from the counter and turning toward Holtz, who is in the midst of pouring herself yet another modest glass of red.

“Buttons.” Holtz smiles wide, her blue eyes sparkling.

Erin snorts into her wine glass before taking a slow, deliberate sip.

“It’s gonna be a bit before the water comes to a boil. Care to sit?” Holtzmann points toward the living room, which isn’t so much a living room as a nearby space attached to the kitchen with beige carpeting and a black sofa.

Erin nods politely and follows slightly behind. They sit on opposite sides, drinking their wine and smiling at one another. It’s quiet and calm, but not awkward and surprisingly comforting. “Thanks for inviting me,” Erin eventually says with a smile on her black cherry painted lips.

“Anytime.”

Holtzmann’s gazing at her now, her cheeks a soft pink; Erin isn’t sure whether it’s nerves or makeup or a result of the wine the engineer appears to be gulping down at a rapid pace, but regardless, she looks absolutely beautiful. It isn’t simply her imagination that Holtz is inching ever-so-slowly closer toward her, her free arm outstretched over the back of the sofa.

“Soooo,” Erin drawls, tapping her fingernails against the glass of her drink. “This is one of your grandmother’s recipes, right?”

Holtzmann stops and nods. “She used to make it all the time. For holidays, for get togethers. Sometimes just because she felt like it.” Her eyes glisten and she seems to get lost for a moment. “I remember being a kid and helping her make it. She would let me pour the bottle of wine into the Dutch oven.” Holtz laughs – soft, almost sad. “She would let me take a swig from it every time and I thought I was a _total badass_.”

They laugh together, and Erin realizes just how much she loves the sound of Holtzmann’s laugh. Loves the way her forehead wrinkles just a little and her nose scrunches. Erin unequivocally, undeniably loves it all. “Well, I’m honored to help you make it. Even though it seems like you’ve done most of the work.” Erin gestures behind her toward the ribs and vegetables cooking away.

Holtzmann shakes her head and smiles. “Mashed potatoes are a very, very important part of the dish. Without them, it all falls apart.” She rests her wine glass on a nearby coffee table, then reaches out and takes Erin’s hand in hers, carefully, gently. “You’re the glue that keeps it all together, Erin Gilbert.”

Erin scoffs. “I think basically everyone else in my life would disagree. I’m a lot better at letting everything fall apart than come together.” She drinks some wine and lets it swish in her mouth for a moment before swallowing – hard.

Suddenly, Holtzmann is very close, so close Erin can smell the wine on her breath and that sweet, sweet smell of perfume she’d noticed earlier. Holtz’s fingers are in her hair, playing with it and petting at it. She’s looking at her, her face cocked to the side and those blue eyes shining again with something mischievous yet sweet and caring. Then Holtz’s hands are on her, cupping her cheeks and stroking her skin with her thumbs. They’re looking at each other for what seems like seconds and an eternity all at once.

They kiss. It’s hesitant at first, but sweet and warm. Holtz’s hands move to the back of her neck and stroke there, caress there as her lips do the same against Erin’s mouth. They’re kissing and kissing and kissing until they’re not kissing anymore, at least not on lips. Holtzmann’s tongue moves across her jawline and up to her ear, her lips tracing the same pattern as her mouth. Everything Holtz is doing is making Erin weak and she’s not normally this submissive, usually takes control, but her brain is short-circuiting because Holtzmann is _kissing her_. Holtzmann is kissing her without remorse, without hesitation. When Holtz’s teeth nip at her lobe, Erin mewls.

Kissing Holtzmann is an out of body experience, or like being possessed, or something along those lines because Erin doesn’t quite remember how her own wine glass makes its way to the table and how she’s straddling Holtzmann’s lap, her violet cocktail dress wrinkling up, just a little, just enough to expose the side of her thigh. Erin feels like she’s in high school again, straddling Johnny Sieber while they make out in his dad’s garage, except this time there’s no Johnny, there’s no scratchy stubble and no fumbling hands; instead, it’s Jillian, stroking her thigh with one hand and steadying her at the waist with the other, kissing her with assurance and confidence.

Waves. The sound of water crashing fills Erin’s ears. She’s not sure whether she’s having a brain aneurysm from kissing Holtzmann because Christ, it’s a real possibility, but then Holtz is pulling away equally concerned, equally confused at the sound of water beside them. “Shit,” Holtz hisses, “the water’s boiling over.”

Erin laughs and carefully steps off of Holtzmann’s lap, returning to her side of the couch. She watches as Holtz runs into the kitchen and turns the heat off, the boil quickly dying down. Erin runs her fingers through her hair and exhales shakily.

She hears Holtzmann swear under her breath as she checks their meal. The smell of smoke fills Erin’s nostrils and she realizes that their little escapade on the couch may have resulted in a slightly ruined dinner; for some reason, though, she feels little remorse about it.

“Sooooo…” Holtzmann taps her fingertips against the counter and taps her foot against the kitchen tile, the ‘ _click click click_ ’ of her heel rhythmic. “How do you feel about Italian food?”

Erin laughs. “I’ll get my purse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hello or swoon over Holtzmann with me over on Tumblr: [awomanontheverge](http://awomanontheverge.tumblr.com/)


	4. Dinner: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sliiiiightly NSFW.

“Who would have thought that grilled baby octopus could be so delicious?” Erin uses her fork to stab at the few remaining pieces of calamari on their shared appetizer plate.

Holtzmann nods while sipping her wine – a deep, red Italian Chianti.    

“I’m glad I let you talk me into getting them.” Erin swallows the last crispy ring and smiles.

“It was either calamari or mussels, and I don’t think you’re quite ready for their slimy deliciousness.” Holtzmann accents the word ‘slimy’ with a wiggle of her fingers.

As they sip their wine, waiting for their entrees, the pair settles into comfortable, casual conversation. Holtzmann asks Erin about what she’s been researching lately, and Erin responds with wild enthusiasm, explaining each and every equation, each action and reaction. She’s babbling on and on for so long that it takes Erin several minutes to notice Holtzmann, her chin resting in her palm, gazing at her like she’s a stunning work of art to admire, or possibly an expensive meal waiting to be devoured; Erin’s not quite sure which. She stops, mid-sentence, to shift in her seat.

“You ok?” Holtzmann asks, sitting straight in her chair with her head cocked to the side.

“Mmhm.” Her voice cracks, which only makes Holtzmann look at her with more suspicion. Before she can say more, their waiter comes, balancing a large black tray on his arm.

“Trancio di salmone?” he asks, looking back and forth between the pair.

“That would be me,” Erin instructs with a lift of her index finger. The seafood dish looks absolutely divine, with a piece of perfectly pink grilled salmon in the middle of her plate, surrounded by zucchini and a light mustard sauce.

“And you must have the fettuccine and lobster.” Carefully, the waiter sets the remaining plate in front of Holtzmann, who thanks him with a tiny nod.

Tasting her meal, Holtzmann lets out a throaty moan that almost causes Erin to choke on her salmon. “This lobster is absolutely delicious.” Holtz twists some pasta around her fork and takes another bite. “How’s yours?” she asks mid-chew.

“It’s really, _really_ good.” Erin scrapes a small piece from the corner of the filet and holds it up to Holtzmann. “Want a taste?”

“Like I would say no to you, Erin,” Holtzmann teases with a wink. She leans in, wrapping her lips around the edge of the fork, and takes a bite. Erin watches, transfixed, as Holtz’s tongue licks a small bit of mustard sauce from the corner of her mouth. Never in her life would she have thought she would want to be brown mustard...

“Would you like a taste of mine?” Holtzmann offers a piece of flaky white and red lobster to her.

Oooh, what a loaded question and what an even more loaded answer, Erin thinks to herself.

“I’m, uh….” Erin shoves a few forkfuls of zucchini into her mouth. “I’m good,” she mumbles between bites.

“Suit yourself. More for me.” Holtzmann swirls her pasta around her utensil and continues eating. When a stray piece of pasta dangles out of her mouth, she sucks it up with a slurp, which makes Erin giggle in a childish way that she’s immediately mortified of.

“You look like something out of Lady and the Tramp,” Erin teases.

Holtzmann looks at her with a deadpan expression. “If you want me to order some meatballs and push them toward you with my nose, I am absolutely 100% down for it.”

Erin’s giggle explodes into a throaty laugh.

For a while, they focus on their meals, fawning over the different flavors. “This salmon really is to die for,” Erin compliments with only two or so bites left on her plate.

“Better than mine?” Holtzmann lifts an eyebrow and shoots her a coy little smile.

“Nothing could taste better than yours, Holtzmann.” Erin’s slightly taken aback by her own boldness, but she doesn’t let it show, straightening in her chair and matching Holtz’s smirk with her own.

The slightly pink color in Holtz’s cheeks does not go unnoticed by Erin.

With their meals finished, the waiter checks on the pair, asking if they have any interest in tonight’s dessert options. The question results in a flirty smile from Holtzmann, followed by her heel sliding up the side of Erin’s calf. “I think we’re good, thanks. Just the check.” When the waiter leaves, Holtzmann reaches for the thin wallet in the back of her pocket and pulls out a credit card from the top slot.

Erin frowns. “At least let me pay for mine.”

Holtzmann shakes her head. “It’s my pleasure.”

“At least let me leave the tip,” Erin protests, reaching into her purse.

Holtzmann raises a hand to stop her. “Nope.” Erin’s frown intensifies, but before she can argue anymore, Holtz adds, “How about this. You can cover the next date, ok?”

That wipes the frown right off Erin’s face. “Next date? Awful presumptuous, aren’t we?”

Holtzmann laughs, her eyes sparkling. She leans into the table slightly, her face close to Erin’s. “You know what they say, Gilbert. Sometimes one bite is all it takes to know you want more of something.”

**-X-X-X-X-**

The cab ride back to Holtzmann’s apartment is agonizing. Erin tries to distract herself by looking out the window, watching the passing traffic and pedestrians and the bright lights of New York City, but it becomes difficult to focus when Holtzmann’s fingertips brush across her thighs. She tries to ignore her, listing items from the Periodic Table of Elements in her head because of course that’s what she does in moments like these, but it becomes damned near impossible when her date begins whispering deliciously naughty things in her ear.

“If we weren’t in public…” Erin says quietly, keeping her eyes focused on the back of the driver’s seat instead of the woman kissing behind her ear.

“You’d do what?” Holtzmann asks with the tiniest flick of her tongue.

Erin’s mind races, trying to figure out something coy or sexy or playful to say. When something finally makes its way to the tip of her tongue, the cab comes to a stop in front of Holtzmann’s apartment building. Holtz practically throws a wad of bills at their driver and jumps out of the cab, rushing around to open Erin’s door for her with a little bow. “M’lady…”

Erin rolls her eyes. “It’s 2016, not 1916.”

Holtzmann shrugs. She reaches for Erin’s hand and takes it in hers, tangling their fingers together. Silently, they walk up several flights of stairs to Holtz’s apartment, breaking their handholding only to allow the engineer to open the door.

“I feel like I was just here,” Erin teases, tossing her purse onto the sofa. She turns back to Holtzmann, who’s leaning against the door with her arms crossed over her chest and a flirty smile spread across her face. Her eyes slowly drag up and down Erin’s body, and while she normally feels uncomfortable with this type of attention, Erin is unusually relaxed. Slowly, she saunters over to Holtzmann, her heels clicking rhythmically on the wooden floor in time with the way her heart beats in her ears. When she’s close enough, Holtzmann reaches for her, taking her hand once more, and Erin doesn’t hesitate or pull away. She melts into Holtzmann’s arms and a follow-up, sensuous kiss.

“Erin,” Holtzmann hums against her lips. The sound of her first name coming out of Holtz’s lips is fucking delicious, something Erin wants to hear over and over again. It sparks a flame that was previously a flicker and despite her degrees and certifications and the composure she’s built her entire career on, Erin throws it all away, grabbing the collar of Holtzmann’s blouse and pulling her in for a deep, bruising kiss.

Wordlessly and without breaking their chain of heated kisses, they stumble to the bedroom. When the back of Holtzmann’s knees hit the edge of the mattress, they tumble back with a bounce, Erin crawling on top of Holtzmann with her eyes bright and her lower lip between her teeth. “Say it again,” Erin whispers, tangling her fingers in a sea of blonde waves.

“Say what?” It’s breathless, a little disheveled. Nothing like the Holtzmann she’s used to.

“My name. Say it again.” Erin’s request causes a guttural moan to slip between Holtzmann’s lips, which only spurs the physicist on more. She kisses down Holtzmann’s neck, taking a special amount of time to lick across the pulse hammering there. Barely a moment later, Erin’s name echoes in the room like a desperate prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He. He. He.
> 
> Last chapter is dessert. Buckle up, kiddos :) 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos fuel the writing flame! Catch me at awomanontheverge on Tumblr or @pattilupwned on Twitter :)


	5. Dessert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your reference: [a particular look Holtzmann is sporting in the middle of this chapter](http://il6.picdn.net/shutterstock/videos/12471638/thumb/1.jpg)....

The first few weeks of autumn prove to be particularly busy for the Ghostbusters. Abby blames it on the upcoming Halloween holiday; Patty suggests that it’s something in the Pumpkin Spice lattes she’s seen all of New York devouring. Despite their delicious (in all variations of the word) evening together several weeks ago, Erin and Holtzmann have had few opportunities to be alone together. A few flirtatious winks and stolen kisses in the back of the lab early in the morning are the extent of the physicality between them, much to Erin’s dismay.

Friday evening slowly rolls around, and Erin hasn’t been this happy for a week to end in quite some time. After 20 ghosts, 4 gallons of slime, 7 bottles of shampoo, and an innumerable about of hours of research and field testing new equipment, the team is totally burned out and collectively decides that for the entire weekend – all 48 hours of it – the Ghostbusters will be shutting down for a mini staycation.

And that means, much to Erin’s _delight_ , that she will finally get some well-deserved, _horribly_ overdue alone time with her favorite engineer and secret chef.  

As five-o-clock rounds the corner, Erin glares at the clock, willing the second hand to move _faster_ , goddamn it.

Erin’s phone buzzes, shaking against the wooden surface of her desk. When she taps on the iMessage notification and the app springs to life with a pop-up animation, two words put a coy smile on Erin’s face:

 **Come hungry**.

Erin shoves her phone in her purse before rushing over to the nearby closet to grab her coat. “It’s five-o-clock somewhere,” she convinces herself as she hastily throws her jacket on and bounds down the stairs two at a time.

**-X-X-X-X-**

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” Erin gasps for breath as she steps inside Holtzmann’s apartment. “I left early but it seems as though everyone has the same idea for this weekend because _fuck me,_ I sat in the damned cab for over an hour and we’d barely moved two blocks.” She tosses her charcoal black-colored jacket onto the sofa and continues rambling. “So eventually I decided it was just going to be faster to walk, so I hopped out and ducked through the alley way and-“

Erin blinks – once, twice, three times – and cuts the one sided conversation short. With wide eyes and slightly parted lips, she steps into the kitchen to find Holtzmann sitting on the counter with her legs dangling over the edge. Holtz wears sheer, black stockings over her feet and up just above her knee, paired with similarly colored panties and a lace trimmed push-up bra. Thick, black-rimmed glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, a variant of eyewear Erin’s never seen her wear before; they’re stark and prominent in contrast to the rose red lipstick spread across her mouth and the natural blush tickling her cheeks. A soft blue and red flannel rests across her arms and shoulders, unbuttoned down the middle to show the lingerie-clad curves below.

“Well hello there,” Holtzmann practically hums, looking down at Erin over the glasses perched at the edge of her nose. “You were telling me an absolutely riveting story about New York City traffic, so please, by all means-“ She waves a hand playfully in Erin’s direction, “-continue.”

“Wha-“ Erin stops and clears her throat to hide the inevitable crack in her voice. “What are you wearing?”

Holtzmann crosses her arms over her chest and tilts her head to the side, smiling. “Are you complaining?”

“Oh _Christ_ , no, I just…” Erin steps closer and runs her fingertip across Holtzmann’s breastbone. “Wow.”

“Wow?” Holtz chuckles.

“Wow wow. Wow.” Erin coughs. “ _Wooow_.”

Holtzmann jumps off the ledge with a little hop. “Well, I put together a few treats while you were working, but it appears that Dr. Erin Gilbert, renowned physicist, has lost her ability to speak, let alone… _eat_.” Holtz winks. “So I suppose I’ll just have to-“

Without hesitation, Erin grabs Holtz’s hand and pulls her close, pressing their lips together in a firm, heated kiss. “What a surprise, I’ve suddenly found my voice and appetite.”

“Well, thank goodness. For a moment I thought I would have to eat alone and that is _never_ as fun.” Holtzmann stands taller, the stray, blonde curls outside of her updo bouncing slightly. “You did come hungry, right?”

“In all senses of the word,” Erin replies with her own wink.

**-X-X-X-X-**

Waiting for Holtzmann to join her in the bedroom, Erin listens to the blades of the ceiling fan cutting through the air with a rhythmic “whoosh”.

When she’d first stumbled upon Holtz cooking breakfast, the last thing she expected was to one day be sprawled out on her bed, eyes covered with a black, silk scarf. Erin – Queen of Routine and the Predictable – hates uncertainty. Her entire life up until the Ghostbusters has been a series of plans and lists and agendas. From the moment after that visit to the Kenneth P. Higgins Institute and her first meeting with chaotically wonderful Jillian Holtzmann, the stability of Erin’s life that she’s grown so accustomed to slowly falls apart and slips through her fingers.

It should terrify her.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t.

“Holtz?” Erin hears the soft patter of feet against the wooden floor of the bedroom. The edge of the bed dips, shifting Erin slightly where she lays in the middle of the mattress, but Holtzmann stays silent as Erin sits up and calls out once more; she’s silenced by a feather-light kiss and gentle fingers running through her slightly-tangled hair.

A moment later, Holtzmann’s lips are replaced with something soft and sweet. Cautiously, Erin takes a small bite, the juice of a rather plump strawberry dripping down the corner of her mouth; Holtz wastes no time catching it with a wet kiss.

“What’s on the menu?” Erin asks, reaching out and resting one hand on Holtz’s shoulder – the first skin she blindly comes in contact with.

“Weeeeeeell,” Holtzmann begins with her unique drawl, “I was thinking some dessert.” Holtz removes her hand from Erin’s hair and traces down her arm and chest. “And then, ya know….” Her voice deepens. “ _Dessert_.”

Erin moans, quiet and breathy.

With her sight hindered, all of Erin’s other senses kick into overdrive. Holtzmann’s soft touch and the way it instantly sets her aflame transcend anything Erin’s experienced in her life. Writing her first book, landing her teaching gig at Columbia, catching her first ghost – none of these things can even compare to the Holtzmann high she’s grown addicted to.

“Open up,” Holtzmann instructs.

There’s no hesitation when Erin parts her lips, the sweet taste of melted chocolate on her tongue as Holtzmann sticks the tip of her index finger in Erin’s mouth. Erin willingly responds, taking it between her teeth, then sucking slowly, swallowing chocolate and her own moan as she hears a slight whimper escape Holtzmann’s throat.

Frizzy waves of hair tickle her shoulder as Holtz dips to run her lips and tongue across the length of Erin’s neck, slow and deliberate and teasing. A long shiver shoots down Erin’s spine when Holtzmann traces her fingernail feather-light down her neck and shoulder, and Erin gasps when the warmth of melted chocolate tickles her skin. Moments later, Holtzmann’s tongue is on her, sucking the chocolate with open mouthed kisses, and Erin feels as though she may die.

RIP Erin Gilbert. Cause of death: Jillian Holtzmann’s deliciously hot mouth.

Holtzmann tangles her fingers in Erin’s hair, pulling her head back just slightly to lick across Erin’s jaw and neckline. She sucks purposefully, leaving a little red spot that will definitely turn into an embarrassing hickey in the morning.

Erin throws her usual concern and reservations to the wind and lets Holtzmann caress her, tasting and devouring every inch of her like a tempting dessert. Erin feels the scarf slide away from her face, the first thing she sees the stunning blue of Holtzmann’s eyes behind her new black-rimmed glasses. “Hi,” Holtz whispers with a crooked, dimpled smile.

“Hi.”

“You’re pretty.” Holtzmann smile widens as she tucks a few stray hairs behind Erin’s ear.

Erin wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, blushing.

Before she has the opportunity to argue, Holtzmann’s kissing her again, this time on the lips, with a heightened intensity.

Erin considers herself to be someone with a refined palate. Over the last few months, she’s determined that Holtzmann is a four-course meal that never grows old or stale. She’s the perfect balance of sweet and savory. She’s a tasteful starter and a filling meal, and even still – a mouth-watering dessert that leaves Erin wanting more. And more. And _more._ Erin determines that no matter how much of Holtzmann she has, there will always be room for _more_.

With her eyes closed, Erin lies back once more, brown hair spreading across the beige covered pillows at the headboard of the bed. Slowly, she inhales, taking in the scent of perfume and chocolate and sex that makes her head swim. Red-painted nails scratch across Holtzmann’s shoulders as the engineer moves down her body with ease. Erin arches instinctively into Holtz’s lips and tongue and allows herself to be devoured completely and wholly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it! The first complete Holtzbert fic I've written :) As always, kudos and comments make the author smile and encourage more stuff!


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